A Sleight of Ink
by chameleoncake
Summary: There were certain things in life she'd seen over and over again. Some of those things, like birthdays, weddings, or children, she'd seen in different places, with different people, on different faces. The rest kept happening in the exact same way. (A 1920s Muggle AU.)
1. Rose Dust

**A/N:** Thank you to the wonderful distant millennial for beta-reading this, my friends Greta and Marshall for supporting me, and everyone who's taken the time to read this. :)

This story is NOT abandoned. I've just finished revising chapter 3. I've also edited chapter 1 about a thousand times, probably, whether for grammar mistakes, Americanisms, or coherency. Also note that I've made some major changes to the story since this was first posted.

(Most recent edit: 3 April 2017)

 **Warnings:** Depression, emotional infidelity, and generally just a lot of angst.

* * *

There were certain things in life Hermione had seen over and over again. Some of those things, like birthdays, weddings, or children, she'd seen in different places, with different people, on different faces. The rest kept happening in the exact same way. The birthdays and weddings and children were a line of houses that all looked the same. She could count them. She could have even told them apart if she'd wanted to. The time she'd spent bent over paper, writing music was a single house that kept moving. That time seemed like separate memories - separate houses, but it wasn't.

Music had been a part of her life since she'd been little. She couldn't remember what exactly had led her to it in the first place, though. It could've been her father's dreadful but constant singing. It could've been her mother's lullabies. It could have been how regal she'd felt whenever the skirt of her favorite pink dress would drape prettily across the piano bench. It could have been the fact that music, unlike any other art, had a definite structure – had objective rights and wrongs – and yet the world never seemed to run out of rights. It'd probably started when her aunt had bought her a viola for her tenth birthday, though.

She still used that same viola after all these years, partly because of its sentimental value, but mostly because she couldn't afford a new one. It was far too small for her now, and the strings needed badly to be replaced; the wooden surface was lined with scratches from being dropped so many times, and she was fairly certain there was something stuck inside - the thing had been rattling for months.  
And Hermione loved it. Loved that stupid piece of rubbish.

She traced an ink-stained finger over the paper she'd propped up against the piano, running it along each note. They were mostly neat, save for a few scraggly lines.

She'd scribbled down a melody earlier. Four bars. Alto clef. B-flat major.

She wasn't sure why she bothered, though. It wasn't like anyone besides Ron was going to read her music, and she never played any of her songs again after composing them. She always folded them up and tucked them between the pages of books. They were organised by key. Every key was assigned to a different book. B-flat major compositions were put in Gulliver's Travels.

She stretched, lifting one hand in the air and placing the other on her neck. Her back was aching. How long had she been sitting there? She reckoned she could use a break.

She sat up, pacing back and forth through the kitchen, looking at the clock every few seconds. She drummed her fingers on the counter. She peered out the window. She looked at the clock again. She kept pacing for a good ten minutes, before she heard the low hum of an engine outside, shortly followed by the light click of a door opening.

With that, Hermione straightened out her skirt and headed to the foyer, only stopping to check her dress—and the white fleece cardigan she probably should have taken off—for any ink spots.

When she reached a familiar gangly figure, she couldn't help but to stop in her tracks. He looked tired. Sedated, even.

His face was red.

This was the fourth time this week he'd come home crying. The who-knows-what-th time in the past few months.

She placed a hand on his cheek. A wet cheek. "Ron...are you—?"

No, he obviously wasn't okay. "What's the matter?" she asked instead. He took in a deep breath before running fingers through his obnoxiously orange hair.

"It's—don't worry, it's nothing," he insisted, gently pushing her hand away. I think I'm just coming down with something." No, he wasn't. She wanted to ask him if he thought she was daft - if he truly thought he could fool her with that. But she put her pride aside and pretended, just this once, that, sure, okay, he was sick. If he tried that again, though…

He wasn't looking at her - just staring at the floor. Had he looked her in the eye once since he walked through the door? Her hand moved from his cheek to his shoulder, and her eyes stayed locked on him.  
He finally looked up at her.

"Really, I'm fine." He must have picked up on her doubt, because he added a soft smile at the last second. She still didn't believe a word of it. Not for a minute. Why couldn't he just let her help him?  
"You've got ink on your hands," he noted, reaching for one.

"Oh, er—yeah, I was just writing…" she trailed off. He cupped her face this time. It made her want to cry with him.

"Show me."

But she just took his hand and led him to the piano.

"The one on the left is - " Ron sniffed. Hermione felt her skirt and curls twirl as she swiveled on her bare feet, furrowing her brows. He shrugged at her as if to say "See? I'm definitely sick."

"Should...should I run by the chemist's and get you some medicine?" He wouldn't let her comfort him, but she would find a way to help him, or at least pretend she was helping. Some way to show him she cared.

"Yeah, sure." No smile. No eyes. Nothing.

She headed back towards the front door to grab her coat off the rack, and as she slipped on her mary janes, she heard his footsteps trailing behind her. She spun around, raising her eyebrows in a silent question. Ron crept closer toward her, wrapping her in a hug and kissing her forehead. This, too, made her want to cry. Before pulling away, he said,

"You're too good to me."

* * *

The town centre wasn't too far from Ron and Hermione's house, no more than two blocks away. All kinds of shops lined the streets - boutiques, bakeries, butcher shops. It wasn't that late, but it was dark enough so that the insides of the shops were brighter than it was outside, and the honey-coloured light that leaked out into the blue evening made Hermione's heart float. As she walked along the pavement, she peeked into some of the display windows, eying flashy jewellry and blinding-white wedding dresses, when she heard a series of 'oohs' and 'aahs' coming from nearby.

She spun on her toes to find the source of the noise. There was a small crowd gathered around a young man. He didn't seem to be doing anything spectacular, but, then again, she couldn't quite see from where she was standing.

So she moved closer.

The first thing she noticed was how young he looked. He had a rosy complexion; colour dusted across the protruding places in his face - his cheeks, his nose, his chin were all pink, and it made the bit of fringe poking out of his cap look ever whiter than it would've on its own. He wasn't a particularly large man. His oversized trousers - held up by braces - seemed to be wearing him. He had a cigarette tucked between his lips, and it muffled the words she wasn't listening to. It was lit, a twirling line of smoke streaming out from its tip, but he didn't seem to be smoking it at the moment. He was simply holding it there.

He asked a fair-skinned woman to open her hand. She revealed a small yellow ball, which had the audience whispering amongst themselves through their applause, as some of them reached out to toss coins in a little tin cup by the blond man's feet. Hermione had missed most of the performance - didn't even know what they were so impressed by, really, but she found herself clapping along.

Then he looked straight at her, as if he could hear every set of hands in an applause, as if he was familiar with each pair, as if he could recognize a newcomer just by the sound of their palms beating together.

The blond man proceeded to pull an apple out of a satchel lying on the pavement and showed it to the crowd, dramatically gesturing towards it with his free hand. He then offered the apple to Hermione, bowing towards her. "Miss, would you take a look at this for me? Feel around it," he said. So she did, running her fingers across its smooth green surface, looking for any poked holes or hollowed out spaces.  
"Is there anything off about it?" he asked.

The stem was missing.

"No," she said with a polite smile, "I don't think so." He thanked her as she handed it back to him. His fingers practically danced around the object, extravagantly flipping it over and tracing circles around its curves.

"No, I don't think so, either." He sounded serious, but she swear she caught a small smirk on his face before he held a finger up in a wait-one-minute fashion. He then sprawled his fingers out around the apple—in a strangely graceful manner—and pulled, splitting the apple clean in half. Cheers and claps erupted from the small group, and she fought an eyeroll

The audience was once again in awe. Complete and utter awe over a child in braces. And yet she still applauded along. She wasn't completely sure why. Maybe she felt obligated. Maybe she was too polite. Maybe she felt it was the proper thing to do.

The blond man began packing up, and once it was clear he wasn't prepping for another trick, the crowd began to scatter.  
She stayed, though, and when he slung the bag over his shoulder and turned around, he noticed she was still there. He took the cigarette out from his mouth, smacking his hands across each other a few times, before acknowledging her with a sigh.

"Look," he said. "If you're going to ask me how I did it - "

"Wha - no, " she said, waving the notion off. "I know how you did it." He narrowed his eyes at her - almost scowled. Like anyone could possibly figure out the secret behind his brilliant apple-splitting. He said nothing, though - only stared at her coldly. He might have walked off if she hadn't spoken up. "It's just - it's hardly a magic trick, don't you think?"

"Who said I was a magician?" She rolled her eyes this time. Did everyone in the world suddenly think she was daft?

" _You're a magician_ ," she said with knitted brows and a tolerating - but amused - smile, "what with the tricks and the posh hand gestures and the cards - "

As Hermione spoke, the blond man lifted his jaw and straightened his shoulders - an unmerited suggestion of victory - and gave a smirk that brought her attention back to the colour in his cheeks.

"I didn't have any cards," he pointed out.

"You might as well have," she pointed back.

"Do you have something against magicians? Or...whatever I am?" She wondered if he was joking, because he was being awfully funny.

"They're liars," she said, jutting her head out for emphasis.

"What's wrong with liars?" His eyes wandered, and he kicked at some dried leaves that'd found themselves on the pavement. No, he wasn't joking, she figured; he was afraid of being wrong.

"You're a bit full of yourself, aren't you?" she asked with a cock of her head. He looked back up at her, eyes narrowing even tighter, as if he were squinting, trying to get a better look at her.

"What do you do?" he asked with a finger pointed at her, ready to accuse. He took a couple steps towards her, probably trying to intimidate her.

"What, for a living?" As he grew nearer, she took in his appearance more carefully. He was just as thin as Ron, but wasn't quite as tall as him. He was still noticeably taller than she was, though - enough so that she had to lift her jaw up to look him in the eye.

"Sure," he said, tucking in his lips and shrugging, "or in your free time." She noticed he used his hands when he talked. If his mouth was moving, his hands were moving too. Neither ever seemed to stop.

"Does it matter?"

"If you're going to insult what I do, yes."

"Okay," she said with a deep inhale, "I write -"

"What do you write?" His facial expression was hard to read. It looked like a mix between childishly sneering and holding back laughter. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd only cut her off in some sort of attempt to get the upperhand.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to interrupt?"

"No. What do you write?" he repeated, leaning back against the brick wall of the flower shop behind him.

"Music," she said. He chuckled.

"Well, there you go." Another I-know-a-lot-of-things-even-though-I-look-like-I-just-crawled-out-of-the-ground expression crept onto his face. He was still trying not to look defeated, though. So arrogant.

"Excuse me?"

"Musicians are the biggest liars out there," he started before his impulsive motions halted. His eyes darted up, as if he were looking for something. "Sorry—what's your name?"

So personal.

"Hermione."

"Her...what?" She suspected he hadn't really misheard her—that this was just another way to toy with her, but she played along.

"Her _mione_. H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E," she spelled out patronizingly. "Hermione Granger." He laughed again.

"I don't see how anyone in their right mind could marry a man named Granger. It's such a—"

"It's not my husband's name."

"Look who's interrupting now," he said with raised eyebrows on an otherwise blank face, fiddling with his nails. "What is it, then?" Had he not been listening? Probably had been, which made his question all the more worthy of another eyeroll. She didn't let one out, though.

"It's mine," she said, trying to sound as flat as possible - not hesitant, but not offended, either.

"Yours?" She wasn't sure if his face was twisting out of disgust, confusion or both.

"Mine," she said once more, as he looked at her like she was out of her mind, brows furrowed and his forehead creasing. Maybe rightfully so, though. It wasn't exactly normal, keeping her maiden name.

She'd felt a twinge of hesitance when she'd first suggested it, but Ron insisted, only half-joking when he said she couldn't go around with a name like Hermione Weasley. He wasn't wrong, after all.

"How...progressive of you," he said, with much less life in his words now. She wrapped her cardigan tighter around her, suddenly feeling sheepish.

"What's yours?" she asked after a moment.

"My what?" Hermione sighed.

"Your name," she said, folding her arms. "What is it?"

"Draco. D-R-A-C-O." He was clearly mocking her, though his voice was more bitter than impersonating. "Malfoy." His tone had softened then, and as he reached out a hand for her to shake, she realised this was the first time she'd introduced herself to anyone in...years, was it?

And as she shook his hand, she realised this was the first person she'd touched other than Ron in months.

"Right," she said with her eyes on the pavement, her lips barely moving as she spoke. "What were you saying about musicians?"

She'd had to end her conversation after a few minutes, afraid she would forget why she left the house in the first place. It was also in part because of how the in-denial magic man had overstepped his boundaries, perhaps inevitably so.

* * *

After setting a paper bag on the kitchen counter, she found Ron sitting at the piano, playing a familiar tune.

Gloomy Sunday. No, he was definitely not okay . She'd heard him play the tune a couple months after his older brother Fred passed away. He played it when he couldn't fall asleep.

He'd play it whenever he felt lonely.

And he played it. All. The time.

Her heart sunk at the thought - at how many times she'd allowed him to feel down. She tried to help, sure, but he would never let her.

"Angels have no thought of ever returning you," she sang along as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. "Would they be angry if I thought of joining you?" Ron looked behind his shoulder and smiled at her. He struggled, as though the corners of his mouth were heavy.

"A bit off-key, but I'll take it," he said, palming his face and yawning.

"Shut up." She laughed and lightly hit his shoulder before sitting down on the piano bench. He gave her his right hand, and his left kept playing. "I'm sorry I took so long," she said, curling her fingers around his. "There was this street magician, and I stopped to look. Wish I hadn't though. He wasn't very good."

"Oh, don't worry." He tapped away mindlessly at the ivory. "I almost didn't notice."

"But...you did notice?" Hermione wanted slap herself across the face as soon as the words had left her mouth.

The music stopped.

He looked at her. He looked hurt.

"Hermione, _of course_ I noticed. " His voice came out in almost a whisper, and held her face again. She let out a breath of...relief, maybe?

No, not relief. Not quite. She was uneasy. Something was clearly taking him over, and, as it pulled at his strings and clawed at his skin, it kept a hold on her heart.

She was about to tell him she loved him—loved him so much it hurt sometimes—but a moment before she opened her mouth, he spoke.

"Listen, what do you think about having dinner with the Potters on Saturday?" She felt her face light up, and resisted the urge to blurt out "'YES.' Yes yes yes yes yes.

"Oh, Ron, I'd love that," she said dreamily. "I haven't seen Harry in ages. Ginny, either." Harry was an old friend of theirs. The only friend of theirs. Ron's parents had taken him in after his parents died, and Hermione lived a few doors down from the Weasleys. They were all practically siblings, which made it all the more strange that Harry ended up marrying Ron's sister.

"Yeah, I talked to Harry at the office today. I hadn't even realised how long it's been." A lot of things had been going over Ron's head lately. Last week, he'd stayed up till morning listening to the radio. He hadn't had a clue until Hermione walked into the sitting room and pulled the curtains back.

"Hm," she managed, only willing herself to stare at his hands. Even those massive, freckled, gentle hands were beginning to look tired lately.

Use your words , she told herself, but nothing. She tried over and over again to think of something. "I looked at some of your old writing the other day." Thank god. She didn't have to.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, felt like reading, you know."

"Sure."

Hermione looked at those pale, beautifully ungraceful hands again. He'd stopped playing, but his free hand was drumming against the keys. Not pushing. "They're all in strange keys."

That was true. She didn't have a book saved for B minor compositions, after all. She'd never bothered.

"Well, yeah, " she said, pursing her lips and looking down at her lap, then him. "What of it?"

"It's just...you could write something in C major. Something not so difficult. It could be just as lovely as anything else you've written." His hands stilled now, and he looked at her.

"Ron," she said, slumping her shoulders and grabbing his hand insistingly. "Why does it bother you so much?"

His eyes trailed away from her again. "Why do you always make things harder than they need to be, Hermione?" He softly, slowly, shakily pushed down on three keys until a C chord came out. "Don't you ever worry you're wasting your time?"

As she tried to answer, Hermione thought back to something that blonde man had said, something that'd made her want to run away - run home to her beaten, bruised viola and beat and bruise it a bit more.

 _"What were you saying about musicians?"_ she'd asked.

 _"They're liars, too. The best of 'em."_

 _"You really think that?"_

 _"I know that. They like to tell people - like to tell themselves, that what they do is art, but they're really just wasting their lives away making noise."_

 _"I've...got to go."_

"I suppose I like to challenge myself." Her eyebrows were raised, but her expression was concerned. "It's more... _fun_ that way." He shook his head with a half-hearted smile.

"Is that why you married me?" The words cut into her furiously, each one taking a turn stabbing her before courteously handing the blade to the next in line. She told herself he'd been joking, but she had an aching sense that he hadn't been.

"Ron," she chuckled anxiously. "Don't be stupid." She waited for him to say that she was right, or to argue his point, or even to return her nervous laugh.

He was silent.

* * *

beta-read by distant millennial


	2. Five Candles Ago

Things had been going downhill for Ron for a while. When his older brother Fred had been killed in The Great War, his eyes opened. He'd always known about death, but after seeing it firsthand, suddenly it was _real_ , and it was coming for him. The thought had drifted to the back of his mind for a while, but by the time his 30th birthday came around, it'd taken his life over again. Being married to the love of his life went from being a miracle he would never stop wondering about to a series of beautiful moments he could lose any day.

Now, every morning, he had to stop thinking just to get out of bed, stop thinking about how intimidating everyone suddenly seemed. Ron had to to stop thinking about how his words, everyone's words were just noise now, how he felt weaker each day, and how most of the time, he couldn't keep up with how fast the world was moving.

How his heart was always hurting. How that aching heart was growing bigger and bigger. How it had started pushing up against his lungs until he could hardly breathe anymore. Stretching up into his throat until he could hardly speak anymore. Oozing out into his brain until could hardly think anymore. He could hardly handle the weight anymore.

And he tried not to think about how, no matter what he did—if he cried, if he tried to drown his thoughts in the sound of the radio, if he went outside in the middle of the night and just screamed 'till his lungs gave out—he couldn't shrink his heart back down.

Most days, he was suffocating in everything, and though everything around him was closing in on him. Those days, he'd either hold his breath, like when he had to get through a workday—sitting at his desk, filling out papers, listening to the tick-tocking of his watch—or he'd let the whole planet fill his lungs.

Not the people in it, only the world. Of course, the world was a rather big place, so breathing it in and out wasn't much easier than not breathing at all.

He still had to breath, though. So some terrible nights after Hermione had fallen asleep, he'd sneak out to the living room and sprawl out on the pea-green sofa she'd picked out. He'd lie there, limp, mouth hung open. He wouldn't think. He wouldn't feel. He'd just be. His breathing was slow and heavy, like it probably was in his sleep. Sometimes Ron wondered if he was just sleeping with eyes open. Not just in those moments on the sofa, but all the time.

If, for these past few months, he'd been sleeping through his life. He truly had no idea.

All he knew was that he'd be holding his breath through dinner tonight.

* * *

Every corner in the tiny house was basking in some sort of cozy, homey aura. The air smelled like childhood, and it lifted the weight that had been pulling down at Hermione for so long. It gave her the same feeling she'd gotten the other day when Ron had held her face. Only now, as she breathed in the warm colors of the dining room—the deep red walls, the twinkling faux golden silverware, the once hideous plaid yellow tablecloth that now almost seemed humble, the wooden floorboards whose creaking only made her feel more at home—did she realise why that feeling made her want to cry so badly.

It never lasted.

And though she had faith these moments would always find her again, there way was no way of telling how long they'd be gone. She found happiness and excitement and relief and all kind of other wonderful feelings outside of these moments. She was looking for any of that. What she found in the dim lighting of flickering lamps was peace. The world always seemed to be turning, but in these waves of comfort, it was as if it was slowing down for her, letting her rest.

So as she fell deeper and deeper into those crimson walls, she savored every last smell and taste and sound that filled her head. Nothing would stop the soft air that was spiraling around her.

Not even a pounding on the door. It must've been Harry. How long had he been knocking?

Hermione peeked out into the foyer before turning to take one last look at the dining room, a sight that could take her breath away and guide it through her all the same, then made her way down the hall.

Upon opening the door, she was nearly blinded by a flash of orange. Ginny had immediately thrown her arms around Hermione. No, nothing was going to clear out that cloud of calm around her. There—standing in the doorway, Ginny's freckled arms wrapped around her—it only seemed to grow.

"My word, have we missed you," the redhead said with a sigh. Her voice was muffled by the mess of curls Hermione had tried to tame with a pair of hair grips. Harry was waiting politely for his turn when his wife waved him over. "Don't be stupid, Harry," she said. "You're not a stranger." He playfully rolled his eyes and gave Hermione one of his do-you-see-what-I-have-to-deal-with smiles before joining in. When they'd all finally pulled away, Hermione was so distracted by Ginny pulling a hair out of her mouth that she almost didn't realise she hadn't invited her guests inside.

"Oh, I'm so—what am I doing? It's freezing out here! Come inside!" It was only August, but the air this evening was piercing straight through the thin fabric of her blouse. The couple both nodded, Ginny clutching at her coat as they scurried inside.

"Make sure you two take your shoes off. Hermione'll have a fit if you track mud in here," said a voice coming from the behind them. _Ron._

And the world was turning again. She was on the ground again.

Ron and Harry worked at the same firm—probably saw each other every day, but Harry gave the orange-haired man a longing smile, like they hadn't seen each other in years. In seconds, Ginny was pushing Harry out of the way to tackle Ron with another one of her violent hugs.

He didn't even have time to react before his sister was pounding her fists against his chest. "You. Idiot." She punctuated her words with especially brutal hits. With a tired face, Ron tried to pull her hands off, but as soon as he started making progress, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt to keep him from escaping.

Ron didn't have much of an advantage over her. Aside from having oversized hands and being quite a bit taller, Ron's physique was eerily similar to his sister's.

Ignoring Ron's squirming, Ginny continued relentlessly beating on him like a small child throwing a tantrum, going on and on about how he never wrote her or any of his family and how she was his sister, for christ's sake, and how he had no excuse for letting her worry like this and—

"Er, alright, Ginny," Harry said through nervous laughter, as he wrapped his arms around his wife, trying to pull her away. "I know he's an idiot," he joked, eyeing Ron, who gave him an eye roll, "but I don't think punching him is going to fix that."

Ginny finally let go, probably not because of Harry's strength—he was the scrawniest man, maybe the scrawniest person Hermione had ever seen—but rather because he'd asked her to.

As she stepped back, she slanted her eyes at Ron. "You're out of trouble for now, Ron, but I swear, if I don't start hearing from you again—"

" _Alright_ ," he said, his voice impatient. His eyes darting around the room but not looking at anyone. "I'll...I'll keep in touch from now on."

He finally looked at Ginny, and he noticed the skeptic look she was giving him. "Honest."

"So, of course he blames me, even though he's the one who hasn't been turning reports in," Harry explained through a mouthful of chicken.

Ginny playfully elbowed him under the table. "Harry, don't talk with food in your mouth," she drawled out. "You'll embarrass me."

"Hm," Harry said, putting a finger to his temple, "I wonder what else would embarrass you." With that, he smacked his elbows down on the table, rattling a couple of glasses and putting a cringe on Hermione's face. She didn't say anything, though. Harry and Ginny may have been family, but they were still her guests.

Ginny tucked her lips in but didn't say anything—just fiddled with short strands of red hair.

"Nothing, huh?" Harry asked her, scratching his head. "What if I..." His voice trailed off, as his eyes moved under the table. Hermione was at a loss as to what was happening until Ginny let out an 'eek' and gave Harry a smirk and another elbowing. The brunette wasn't sure exactly what Harry had done to Ginny just then, but she was almost certain it wasn't something he should have been doing here, in her dining room. 

She glanced at Ron, who seemed to be just as uncomfortable, and, as if reading Hermione's mind, he let out a cough.

Harry blushed, while Ginny held back a laugh. "Er, so, where are the children tonight?" Ron asked, stirring a spoon in his glass of water. It probably should've bothered Hermione, but she found herself getting lost in the clumsy turns of his wrists.

"Oh," Harry said, removing his mouth from Ginny's ear. "Well, we figured—James is old enough to look after the little ones, isn't he?" James, named after Harry's late father, _was seven years old._

Ginny shoved at his arm, trying her very best to look angry, but her mouth just wouldn't stop twitching upwards. " _Harry_." Ron didn't seem to be listening, still focused on his glass, rubbing the condensation away with his thumb.

"They're with Molly," Harry admitted, taking another bite of chicken. Apparently Ron _had_ been listening, though, as head face shot up.

"How is she?" Ron's face was, for the first time this evening, expressive— _very_ expressive, at that. Full of worry. Hope. Hurt. Regret. Longing.

"Well," Ginny said under her breath, "Maybe you'd know if you'd visit her." Hermione couldn't bring herself to look at Ron's reaction. She didn't think she'd be able to bare his expression at that.

"Ginny, now's not really the time..." Harry said, more concerned than warningly. He reached for her hand, but she waved him off.

" _No,_ Harry. I'm sorry, but he shouldn't have to ask how his own _mother_ is doing when she lives less than a mile away."

"I, er—" Ron fumbled over his words as he stumbled out of his chair. "If I could just—if you could just… excuse me for a moment." He started to head out of the dining room, but stopped and turned back to look at Hermione, as if he were asking her something.

She silently asked if he was okay, and, for a second, his lips parted like he was going to mouth something back.

But he just kept walking instead.

* * *

Nearly half an hour had passed, and Ron still hadn't come back. The three of them had broken the silence through small talk.

"So," Ginny said, her hand on Harry's knee. "Have you and Ron thought about kids—"

" _Ginny,_ " Harry nudged her, scolding her, and she gave him an offended look.

" _What?_ It's a fair question. They've been married for—what, ten years?"

"Twelve," Hermione mumbled. Ginny twirled her arm towards Hermione, who'd just further proved the point.

"Right. _Twelve years_ , Harry. We had James…" She counted on her hand, putting one finger up after another. "We had James _three_ years after we got married." Hermione was silent.

"Ginny, not everyone is ready for things at the same time. You know...life gets in the way." He held the hand that was on him, smiling as he squeezed it. She seemed to understand, nodding and smiling back.

"So what's gotten in _your_ way?" she asked. As Harry sighed, Hermione sank into her seat, her heart sinking with her.

Really, she knew exactly why she and Ron hadn't had any children yet.

Ron's…'current state', though it was especially bad recently, had started years ago. She'd dedicated her life to making him happy. He didn't ask for that; he'd only asked her to marry him. She couldn't sleep peacefully, though, if Ron wasn't sleeping at all. How could she help him past this—help bring the color back to his hands—if she had a screaming baby to take care of?

 _She couldn't._

"I...I guess it's just never been the right time."


	3. All-Saying Eye

Hermione woke up to find that Ron had already left for work. He'd left an imprint of himself behind, though.

She could still smell him - nothing specific, just...Ron, and the sheets were still crumpled up because he hadn't made up the bed. She rolled herself over into his dent in their cheap mattress, breathing him in.

Memories began to flood her head - memories of all the times she'd fallen asleep in her parents' bed.

Every time, she'd wake up alone. If it was early enough, her mother would be pounding away at her typewriter - she'd been a writer, too, a much more avid one than Hermione, typing up drafts of novels that she'd never publish - and her father would be in the sitting in the parlour, smoking with a newspaper in his lap - something her mother had never stopped nagging him about. Usually, though, they'd be downstairs, working - the Grangers lived above their dentistry business. Hermione's parents had hardly ever discussed work with her, and she really only ever went downstairs to leave for school, but they must've been successful enough, as they'd never run into any financial issues. None that she'd heard of, anyway.

Like with Ron, she could still smell - still feel them in the bed far after they'd gone, ink and parchment on one side of her, cigars and sweat on the other. Always whispering in her ears were the sounds of lullabies and typing, throaty laughter terribly off-pitch singing that somehow made Hermione feel safe, at home.

Lying there now in her own bed, there was no hint of cigars in the air, no voices singing her to sleep, but she still found comfort in the ghost of her husband that haunted the bed. She wasn't sure where the nostalgia of this moment was coming from - her childhood or her marriage. She could hardly tell where one had ended and the other had begun. It didn't really matter, though. It was wonderful. Familiar. Warm.

Too warm. Underneath several blankets - she'd been sleeping with at least two since the beginning of the month because of how cold it'd gotten - the coolness of her silk nightgown had long disappeared. That combined with the hot, wet bed sheets underneath her began making Hermione feel dizzy - nauseous, even. She tossed and turned and fumbled and fidgeted. She started sweating. And her head began to pound. And her stomach turned.

She lept out of bed so quickly that blood rushed to her head, blacking out her vision for a few seconds. She clutched her stomach and gritted her teeth, her legs wobbling as she ran across the room and towards the window. Now violently coughing, she put a hand over her mouth and struggled for a bit before finally getting the window open.

Just in time, too.

She hadn't eaten anything today, so nothing came out of her mouth. Hermione just stood there, dry heaving over the hedges that lined the edge of the house.

"Miss, are you alright?" she heard a voice say. It was a shout - somewhere from across the street - but something in its essence was soft, nurturing. Maybe even motherly.

Before even looking to see who'd been talking to her, Hermione knelt down out of sight and crawled across the room to grab her dressing gown out of to cover up with a dressing gown. Hermione tiptoed back towards the window and peeked her head ever-so-slightly out from the edge.

In that moment, Hermione noticed three things.

The first was how cold it was outside. While the rest of her continued to sweat, her face was beginning to lose the feeling in it, tiny puffs of wind rolling into her eyes, nose, ears.

She supposed she'd been too busy coughing her lungs out earlier to pick up on it, but she could feel it now - that same numbing coldness that had passed right through her last night. It hadn't warmed up at all since then.

The second was a woman who was disappearing from sight as she fast-walked towards the front door of Ron and Hermione's house.

And the third was how odd that woman looked. She was wearing a shapeless gingham dress, and her hair was long - not just long, but so long that Hermione wondered if it'd ever been cut - straggly and very, very blonde. She had a blue ribbon neatly wrapped around her head, but everything else about her was sloppy.

Her knocking, though, was anything but. It was neat. Even. Patient.

She knocked.. One, two seconds went by.

She knocked again. Two more seconds

Knock.

Hermione rubbed her eyes and dragged her feet towards the door. Before it was even fully open, a voice was speaking.

"Do you have any fish oil?" it said. Hermione rubbed her eyes once more, taken aback, and far too tired to process words.

"Sorry?" As her palms left her face, Hermione got another view of this blonde oddity, reminded of her... oddness. The hair even wilder than her own, the atrocious dress, the ribbon that didn't match it one bit. The only thing new she noticed upon a closer look was her eyes. They were a greyish sort of blue, and they were absolutely, positively, utterly enormous . They almost bulged out, as if they couldn't quite fit in her head.

"Fish oil. Have you got any?." If not for its comforting sound, her voice would have been monotone. It didn't change volume or intent. She sounded like she was reading from a book. Her face was similarly flat - expressionless, save for slightly raised eyebrows and a faint look of content in her eyes - those massive eyes.

"...No?"

"Shame. Could've helped," she said, pursing her lips and cocking her head to the side before shaking it disappointedly. "Are you okay?" There was no hesitation in her words. They seemed to simply slip out of her - no stuttering or stalling.

"Oh," Hermione wiped her arm across her wet forehead and chuckled breathily.. "I'm fine. I just...I haven't eaten anything yet, and it's too warm in here, and - " The blonde woman ducked her head inside the house, and, whether out of confusion, curiosity, or simply having been caught of guard, Hermione stopped speaking. No hesitation in her actions, either,

Before Hermione could ask her what she was doing, the blonde woman ducked her head back out and said "You're right."

"Right…" Hermione's eyes slanted, but the blonde woman's stayed as wide as ever. She wondered if her instincts were working properly, because they weren't telling her to slam the door shut and run away.

"Right." The blonde woman didn't didn't move or look around or fiddle with her sloppy lumps of hair. No, she stood there patiently, hands hung limp at her sides.

"Would you like to come inside?" Hermione asked without a thought. Maybe this woman's impulsiveness was contagious.

"Would you like me to come inside?" _No. Not really, no_

"...Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes." _No._

"Right, then," she said, stepping inside without warning, as Hermione backed up against a wall to make room for her. She at least had the courtesy to take her shoes off, relieving some of the tension this girl had caused to build up in Hermione's shoulders.

"I'm..I'm sorry," she said as the blonde woman wandered around the small foyer, stopping to examine its corners. "Do you live somewhere around here?"

"Yes. Is your house haunted, by any chance?" she asked, finally looking up from a spiderweb she'd been focused on for a few seconds, looking patiently at Hermione for an answer."

"I don't...think so."

"Oh." Her empty eyes blinked blankly at Hermione for some time. "Well, you're wrong," she finally continued, eyes on the spiderweb again. She squinted, squatting down with her hands on her knees to try and get a better look. She somehow managed to still look ladylike while doing it.

She begged a million questions, this one. "I - what's your name? Have you lived here long?"

"Yes," she said, inching closer to the dusty corner. Hermione noted to herself to clean that up later - maybe the whole foyer. She was so direct with her answers - didn't give any more information than what was asked of her. It was nice in a way, but it meant Hermione would probably have to slow down.

"And your name?" The blonde woman looked over her shoulder, eyed the floor, than eyed Hermione as she stood up, wiping her skirt off. It didn't do much good, though, because her hands were covered in dust, too. "Luna Lovegood." She had a ring on her left hand, Hermione noticed, before she offered her right.

"Hermione Granger." Her handshake wasn't very firm, but it wasn't limp and lifeless either. All of her movements were steady and static - confident, but not cocky. "Are you married?" Hermione asked when they let go.

"No," she said, returning to her wandering. What kind of person wore a wedding ring that wasn't married?

When it came to her, Hermione nearly thunked a palm against her forehead. Of course.

"Engaged, then?" Luna faced her again - waited for a bit to answer.

"Yes." Of course . She decided to blame Luna's pause on being stunned by how long it took Hermione to figure that out.

Now that she was here, Hermione decided she might as well have made a guest out of her. "Would you like something to drink?" she asked.

"Yes." Hermione folded her arms and tried her best not to let out a sigh. After some time, she opened her mouth to clarify, but Luna finally spoke. "Tea would be nice."

* * *

"So," Hermione said from the kitchen, reaching for a set of saucers and cups, "my house is haunted?" Hermione didn't believe in anything remotely supernatural, but she decided she'd humour her. Maybe a tiny part of her was curious, too.

"Well, it's obvious," Luna said from a chair at the table. Her dress looked almost identical to the table cloth, the only difference, it seemed, was that the dress was blue. Both plaid, though. Both hideous. "Maybe not to you, of course. Not everyone can see them."

"What, ghosts, you mean?" she asked, turning over her shoulder. Luna nodded. "Most people can't, I'd say. Wouldn't you?" As dropped a tea bag in each cup,, Hermione used her sleeve to wipe another bead of sweat off her neck. It was still so hot, and the cloud of steam rising out from the kettle wasn't making things much better. The heat grazed against her neck - gently, as if it were nuzzling her, but the affection wasn't welcome.

"I wouldn't know. I haven't met most people." Luna had started playing with her hair, pulling out a sigh of relief from Hermione, because, yes, this bug-eyed woman was in fact a human, not some sort of lifeless body with a nice voice and dreadful hair.

By god, that hair.

"Lu-Miss Lovegood - " Before she had the chance to think over why using this woman's first name seemed strange, unfamiliar, inappropriate, Hermione was cut off.

"You needn't be formal, Miss Granger." The irony of her words didn't go unnoticed, but Hermione wasn't sure if they sprouted out of wit or obliviousness, or both.

Regardless, she was right. Luna clearly didn't care how she presented herself. Why would - why should she have cared how Hermione did?

Perhaps she assumed that Luna would judge her for being familiar because she was judging Luna for being odd, even now, even as she became aware of it.

"Right... I was - Luna, have you ever cut your hair?" she asked, folding her arms and leaning back against the counter."

"Yes."

"Okay...well, have you thought about getting it cut again?" Or using a comb?

"No."

"Erm," Hermione began, furrowing her brows and curling her lip a bit as Luna added five, six, seven, thirteen spoonfuls of sugar to her tea, "what does your fiance do for a living?"

"We run a nightclub together." She hadn't stopped scooping. Hermione almost hadn't registered the answer, too focused on how liberal Luna was with sugar.

"Oh?" For a moment, considered snatching the jar and spoon away. Really, this was getting ridiculous.

Finally, finally setting the spoon aside, Luna lifted up her saucer and cup and took a sip of her tea - likely more sugar than tea now. "Mhm," she said with a nod, still sipping.

"Which one is it?" she asked.

"The one in the town centre." Hermione began to wonder if Luna gave vague answers on purpose.

"There are two or three in the town centre," she said with a friendly sigh and an exasperated grin, " Which one is it? " As should've been expected, Luna answered without hesitation.

"The best one." A smile forced itself on Hermione's face. Luna was strange, no doubt about it, but there was something about her that made Hermione feel at home. Maybe it was her voice. Maybe it was that she didn't hide anything - not the truth, not herself. Maybe it was just her - who she was as a whole.

"Well, forgive me, but I'm not too familiar with any of them," Hermione said with a shrug and a lift of her eyebrows as she lifted her cup to her lips. "What's it called?"

"Pandora's Socks." Luna looked up at the ceiling, not in a distracted manner, but in an I-love-life sort of way, like a child having a nice dream.

"Sorry, did you say 'socks'?"

"Yes."

"Not 'box'."

"No."

"Socks."

"Yes."

"Why call it that?"

"My mother wore socks sometimes." Luna's eyes were still on the ceiling. She seemed to be examining now, rather than just looking towards it.

"Lots of people do."

"Lots of people aren't important to me." Had she said 'wore'?

"Sorry, did you say 'wore'?"

"Yes."

"As in...not anymore?"

"Yes."

"Is your mother…"

"Yes." Neither one of them spoke for a few moments. Then, Luna's eyes were off the ceiling and on Hermione. "What about your parents?" she asked, scooting her chair closer to the table, causing an unpleasant screeching sound as the woods rubbed against each other.

"Oh they're..." Now it was Hermione's turn to let her eyes drift. They settled on the floor. "They're not around."

Luna propped her elbows up on the table and leaned forward, scooting her chair in again. Making that dreadful noise again.

"What happened?"

"Oh...they moved to France when I got married. Said they wanted to branch out or...something." When Hermione looked up, she saw Luna's face was still mostly blank, but there was a hint of sympathy somewhere in it. "It's okay, though, really. They write to me..." Not enough.

"You're married?

* * *

Ron woke up to the sound of his boss's grumbling voice. "Weasley? Y'alright? Aren't skivin' off, are you?" He was so loud. Sweaty, too, Ron remembered as two hot, wet hands patted his shoulders roughly.

"Wha - er, no, sir." Ron dragged a hand across his face, from his disheveled hair to his dry lips, pulling his bottom lip down by his palm.

"Listen, Weasley…" He let out a sigh before scratching his greying moustache, which was also rather sweaty. "Something's not right with you lately."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, sir," Ron said, his face scrunching up from fiercely trying to hold back a yawn. He failed, and there was a pause before Mr. Bailey spoke again.

"Maybe you ought to get out more. Take the wife and kids - "

"I don't have kids," Ron interrupted, earning a warning look, "...sir."

"Yeah, well," Mr Bailey grumbled out, scratching his chin and sighing, "maybe that's your problem." Ron shifted to swivel his chair, but instead settled for looking over his shoulder.

"Sir?"

"Who've you to worry about but yourself?"

"I don't know," Ron said, slumping in his chair. "My wife?" With that, Mr. Bailey laughed so hard he healed over, but Ron questioned how much of it was genuine.

"Weasley, I've met your wife." He was still smiling, pretending to recover from his staged laughter. "That one's a force of nature, she is. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that you'll never have to worry about taking care of her."

He was right. If anything, Ron was the one in need of care. It wasn't a realisation, but a reminder - a persistent thought that always made him feel uneasy - made some part of him feel threatened, and he wasn't sure if it was his masculinity or his marriage. "I appreciate the concern, but -"

"Just something to think about." He then left Ron's desk to bother his other employees. He left Ron, who - no matter how much he didn't want to think about it - was very much thinking about it.

* * *

Luna had long since left by evening. They had talked about everything. Ron, Luna's father, Hermione's father, Ron's father, the nightclub, the fiancee - his name was Rolf, she learned - the day, the night, Mondays, Tuesdays, everything and everyone. Luna had continued being Luna and Hermione had continued warming up to her. She eventually had to leave, though. Something about needing to feed her birds.

And so Hermione had been left to herself again, and she ran to her viola for company, like always. She sat on the bench and played, music propped up on the piano, until she was too tired to keep going. That's how it usually went. Her back would ache, then her arms would ache, then her fingers would ache, and she would finally stop.

She stood up, and she could barely feel her legs. She headed over to the sofa. She turned the radio on to some classical station before lying down. And she quickly understood why Ron liked this so much. It was more than relaxing. It was sedating. It numbed her inside and out. She didn't have to think, like with people. She didn't have to process anything. She didn't have to come up with a response. She didn't need to listen - only had to hear.

She wondered if she could start writing here, like this - put the paper up on her knees. The surface wouldn't be as stiff, but neither would her back.

"Lift up your legs for a second," a voice said. Her eyes weren't closed, but she felt as though they were. They were out of focus that everything as almost black. She tried to open them, and ended up widening them instead. That worked, too, though. The blackness warped into an orange blur, and the orange blur sharpened into her husband. She finally did as he'd asked, and he sat underneath them, resting Hermione's legs on his lap.

"I think I get it. This."

"That?" he asked, pointing to the radio.

"Mhm," she said, turning to her side and curling up, knees to her chest, her feet still on Ron. "That and what you do with it. The - you know."

"Yeah." He moved a hand up and down her calf.

"I'm a bit scared though." Hermione craned her neck towards him before facing the back of the couch again."

"Of what?"

"That it's going to be dreadful getting up again."

"It will be." His hand stopped, as if it were mulling over something. "You don't have to get up, though." Her head moved to him again, and she flipped onto her back

"I'll have to get up eventually," she sighed out. "It's either that or die here." She wasn't sure if she'd been joking or not but Ron laughed, so she decided that yes, she had been. She sat up then, swinging her legs over and onto the floor. "Ron?" Instead of saying anything, he looked at her with a face ready to answer, though the brain behind it was clueless. "I think we should do something tomorrow evening."

"We just had dinner with - "

"No, something outside of the house." Ron stood up, turning away from her and placing a hand on his forehead.

"I - maybe next week."

He'd said that last time. He always said that. She didn't point that out, though, perhaps in fear of sounding like a hesitant child talking back to their parent, as she knew if those words left her mouth, they wouldn't have left without taking guilt along with them. "Ron, I think it would be good for - " _Careful,_ she thought."For both of us." He spun back around, shaking his head and pulling on his hair, his brows knitted and his forehead creasing.

"Where would we even go?" Hermione stood up and took his hand.

"As a matter of fact, I was talking with one of our neighbours today, and she - she owns this nightclub -"

"You talk to the neighbours?" He almost looked offended.

"Well, yes." She looked at the ground and softened her voice. "Not all the time...but I get lonely, you know. I get bored." The truth was she didn't talk to the neighbours. Ever. Luna had been the first she'd talked to since the first year she and Ron had moved in. She did get lonely, though, and she did get bored. As much as she loved her music and the stupid piece of wood she used to make it, she feared her life would soon center around it if she didn't take action.

"Right," he said, squeezing her hand, "right, I'm sorry, I just - will it be loud?"

"Probably." Hermione's heart sank an inch or two when she saw Ron wincing.

"Alright. Tomorrow, then?" And then, though Ron's face was still scrunched up, Hermione's heart flew straight to her head.


End file.
